A Friend And Associate
by AutumnAtMidnite
Summary: When a case nearly has deadly consequences for Holmes and an irate Inspector is out for revenge, Watson is forced to step back into his role as doctor for the first time since returning to London. And in so doing, two fellow lodgers evolve into friends.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I've recently been polishing up my older fics and have taken the liberty of making this particular one seem more coherent, while also adding in a few lines of introspection here and there that were cut from the original draft. Having gone back to re-read them, I was pleasantly surprised to find most of the omitted bits met my approval years later, and, in my opinion, contributed well to the story. While they should not change anything of significance herein, might make this lean more towards pre-slash. Just so you know.

* * *

It was well into the small hours of the morning in late January '83, about that time before dawn when shades of gray and pink integrate into the night sky, when I heard the front door creak open, followed shortly thereafter by an audible thud. Undoubtedly the third floor tenant, Mr Merriforth, returning from a night spent in the most disreputable taverns and houses of ill repute London had to offer. His escapades were becoming a frequent enough occurrence of late that no sooner had I heard this than I dismissed it from my mind.

With a glass of dark brandy in hand, I stoked the fire before slumping down into my armchair with a sigh. Sleep was a tantalizing proposition at the moment, but I knew it would never come with my nerves strung high as they were. It had been scarcely an hour before when I had been knocked up from a peaceful slumber the persistent pounding upon our sitting room door by one Inspector Cartwright. I had, only once before, the displeasure of making the fellow's acquaintance, shortly after moving to Baker Street, and that single encounter was about all of him I could stomach. Granted, he _was _perspicacious enough to have won a passing tolerance by Holmes, but I made it a point to avoid any investigation I knew he might be involved with, so much did his very presence have the effect of making my skin crawl, for Cartwright seemed to me as malicious and arrogant as he was quick witted.

By the time I threw on my threadbare blue dressing gown and rushed down the stairs to investigate the cause of this commotion at so irregular an hour, I found Mrs Hudson had been roused as well and was letting the Inspector know in no uncertain terms that she would not tolerate such churlish behavior from anyone, including the official police force. Not at four in the morning, anyhow.

I suppressed a grin, knowing she handled with grace far worse from Holmes.

Be that as it may, I managed to subdue the threatening storm that was our formidable landlady's temper, escorting her back down to her rooms whilst assuring her I would clean up whatever mess her insufferable lodger had brought upon our doorstep. With a huff, our landlady retired, no doubt cursing herself all the while for ever renting to Sherlock Holmes.

"_Holmes!" _Cartwright shouted the moment he entered our sitting room - or rather, as he dramatically flung open the door and stormed into my companion's bedroom. "Holmes! Where the devil are you, you dirty, cowardly blackguard!"

I attempted to interject at several points as the Inspector proceeded to tear our rooms apart, searching every corner for Holmes as though he would stoop to hiding under the settee in lieu of a confrontation. However, he was ignoring my presence so thoroughly that for a moment I wondered if I was even standing beside him or back upstairs dreaming all this.

"Cartwright," I finally interrupted successfully, taking the man by the elbow. "Holmes left our rooms in some haste two days ago, shortly after breakfast, and has not returned since. And no - I haven't the faintest idea as to his whereabouts or when to expect him back. He's often gone for days at a time when on a case, and if it was not business enough of mine for him to tell me where he went, it's certainly not my place to give _you_ any more information."

The inspector bristled at my words, turned several shades redder and, before leaving as unexpectedly as he had arrived, shook a warning fist at me.

"Confound that man! Doctor, you give Mr Holmes a message from me. If that man dares continue to mock the good laws of England and get in the way of our official investigations again, I will personally come round and horsewhip him once for every man down at the Yard! He has tried my patience far too many times, and he'll do best to remember that. _Good-night_," he finished, slamming the door in his wake with no little force.

Only the devil knew what Holmes had been sticking his nose into now, but lucky for him he had not been around to find himself on the receiving end of Cartwright's wrath. Of course, at one point or another, nigh on half the Yarders had threatened him with bodily injury for what they saw as interference, but this… not only did I believe he would have dragged Holmes out of bed - had he been there - to dole out a thrashing he should not soon forget, I also realized this was not going to be the last we would see of that man.

So here I waited at this ungodly hour, anticipating giving Holmes a good verbal thrashing myself, and pondering how one of these days, his methods would sink him in waters so deep, not even I would be able to pull him out, when there came another, more distinct thumping from the staircase, as if some great weight had been unceremoniously hurled down with some force. And while it may have been my overwrought nerves playing tricks upon a weary brain, there was, I swore, a most dismal groan accompanying the clatter. At this, of course, my medical instincts were aroused, for it was likely that the upstairs tenant would need assistance if he had not managed to right himself by now. As much as I could not approve of the fellow or his habits, my oath as a medico did take precedence.

Imagine my horror, then, when I stood on the landing and saw not Mr Merriforth in a drunken stupor, but Sherlock Holmes slumped over on his side, face buried in the carpeting. Even from the landing I could discern that his breathing was heavy and laboured, as though the five or six stairs he had managed to ascend was some feat of Herculean proportions. For his iron will to be reduced to this pitiable state was more frightening to me than the sight of him barely conscious on the stairs.

"Holmes!" I cried, rushing to his side. "Oh, my dear fellow! What's happened to you?"

Kneeling before him, I stroked his unkempt hair in an effort to make him turn towards me. My only response, however, was a low growl, intended as a remonstrance to what I knew he perceived as mollycoddling of the worst order, yet I was not to be deterred. Ignoring his weak attempt at expressing dissent, I proceeded to check the pulse at his neck, which was weak yet overly fast. This was suggestive to me of a fair amount of blood loss, and unfortunately my theory was confirmed true when I noticed the blood welling steadily through his trousers at the upper thigh, dripping onto the step into an alarmingly large puddle. Sweeping back his greatcoat revealed a substantial portion of his pelvis down to the mid left thigh were saturated with blood, a fair portion of which had already dried, even as the wound still bled afresh. This was neither an insignificant nor recent injury for the initial bleeding to have since dried so thoroughly. By Jove, how long ago must he have been wounded?

I must confess my stomach turned at the thought of Holmes trudging through the snow with this ghastly injury - and he had not seen fit to take a cab, of that I was sure. Using his own methods, I was able discern his trouser legs were thoroughly soaked with snow nearly up to his calves, indicating that he had indeed walked quite some way before finally succumbing to shock and fatigue before collapsing in our hallway.

When I snaked my arm underneath the poor fellow's waist in attempt to haul him up off the staircase, I was met with his usual resistance towards another's help. With much less force than I knew he was capable of, he shoved my arm aside and, without looking up, spat at me to _"sod off, there's a good fellow". _A surge of relief did flood through me at this, for surely Holmes' condition was not so bad off if he was still cognizant enough to be considering his pride. Proud or not, though, I was his physician as well as fellow lodger, and whilst I always obeyed his injunctions in the nearly two years we had been sharing rooms together, I was not giving in to his stubbornness this time.

Again I attempted to turn him over, but again he pushed me away with what must have been all the strength he could muster. His grip was pathetically weak for any grown man but doubly so for him. This feeble attempt to push me away was followed by the most colourful string of slurred insults and curses mumbled into the carpeting, though I hoped this was to blame on the effects of the shock more so than any actual ill feelings harboured towards me.

Be that as it may, I could be equally stubborn as Holmes, and would not be put off. With his third attempt to shove me, his arm collapsed under its own weight. At this he went silent, breath coming in panting gasps. I who knew him so well understood this was not simply from the exertion. Within those thinly veiled attempts to cover his sobs, I heard the very breaking of Sherlock Holmes' pride, and the sight of what my friend was reduced to clamped down upon my own heart like a merciless vice.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Just a heads up - poor Holmes has been injured in a very… sensitive area ;)

Lifting Holmes' sparse frame into my arms, the only small comfort I could think to afford him was to discreetly guide his head onto my shoulder so the tears he was so desperately struggling to not shed could be effectively concealed in the folds of my dressing gown. He lay still whilst I, shoulder and leg wounds protesting fiercely, hauled him up the remainder of the stairs and into his bedroom. Once I had him laid out on the bed, I quickly divested him of outer coat and boots. Though when I made to undo the buttons of his trousers, the detective's mercurial disposition flared with a vengeance.

"_Watson!" _he hissed with palpable wrath. "What in all blazes do you think you are doing?"

"I'm removing your trousers so that I might take a better look at your wounds," said I, after inhaling a calming breath. "Just lie quiet and let me help you."

"No!" said he, petulantly. "You needn't trouble yourself. Just leave me be. This is but a trifle, a mere scratch. I can take care of it on my own." He was blanched and sweating profusely, obviously quite ill. The blood loss was my main concern but Holmes' appearance also bespoke of possible infection.

"And leave you to bleed out on your own bed? Honestly, man, what do you take me for? You are having medical treatment whether I have your consent or no, so I would advise you to decide whether you prefer myself or another to treat you. Either way, a doctor you shall have."

As I spoke to him, I tried, unsuccessfully, to meet his gaze, yet the irascible fellow turned away, deliberately avoiding me. Though it must have pained him greatly, he rolled onto his side, turning his face into the pillow, and the puerile gesture indicated to my mind what his hesitation may have been about. Being a man who viewed all emotion as weakness, placed self reliance in the highest regard - to be undressed, examined, prodded by the only man in this world who tolerated him as a companion must have been humiliating. He enjoyed the fact that I often thought of him as not quite human for all his uncanny mental and physical prowess, though one thing I have since learned in my years of living with the man is that Sherlock Holmes is very much out of his depth, even somewhat embarrassed by his emotions. For many long years I wondered if he was not devoid of them altogether, and certainly he has, on more occasions than I can count, claimed not to be subject to their influence. For some time I was convinced in the truth of this. Until I witnessed enough of his heart leak out in moments such as this to understand it is not that he is not so much deficient in human emotions, rather, Holmes willfully stifles them until he suffocates under the weight. When finally his iron composure does crack under tremendous strain, the little which does seep out before the man pushes it back in has done naught but prove to me the size of his heart may in fact surpass that of his brain.

Holmes had gone against his naturally reclusive nature to allow me closer access to him than any other, yet there was still his defensive wall, that was now shattering around him. I had seen him in his moment of weakness when the pain overshadowed even the sharpness of his mind. I had seen him exposed as a mere mortal and now he believed my regard for him would somehow lessen because of it.

I longed to prove otherwise.

Moreover, I was overcome with the urge to show the impossible fellow the depth of my own regard for him, that when I maintained I should never view him as ordinary during the Jefferson Hope case, that sentiment held true regardless of his plight. Would _always_ hold true.

Instead, I exhaled heavily and focused entirely on healing my patient.

From the water closet I had retrieved a cloth large enough to be useful as a makeshift tourniquet. Tying it as tightly as I could, my hands faltered somewhat when I noted how blood was seeping through the thick white cloth already.

"What the deuce happened to you?" I asked, a lump in my throat I prayed Holmes would not notice.

"I took a bullet," he responded dryly, gaze fixed on the wall, still too obstinate to look directly at me, though resigned to the fact he was getting treatment.

It was about this point when I lit his bedside lamp and saw, for the first time, the considerable bruising on his face, mainly the right side, which he had been careful to keep hidden in the confines of his pillow, and around his throat I discerned the faint outline of finger marks.

"And a beating, as well, from the looks of you," I chided.

"It was not my finest moment."

With a sigh, I made for the door, turning to him at the threshold. "I shall be back in a moment, Holmes."

It took me no time at all to collect the medical bag from my room, and back to the water closet for additional cloths and a basin of lukewarm water. All the while my hands were shaking violently. This was too much like Afghanistan. The bullets, the blood, the men who were beyond my help emotionally, if not physically. I had not practiced medicine since those days in the army, and could not help but think this was the worst way to slip back into my role as physician. I said a silent prayer as I re entered Holmes' room that my rusty medical skills would do justice by my dearest friend.

"Well, Holmes, what will it be?" I inquired as I stepped to the side of his bed, placed my medical bag and the warm water on his nightstand. "Shall I call on Dr Bainbridge of Brook Street, or are you ready to cooperate with me?"

Holmes finally turned to me, his liquid grey eyes meeting my own. With one quick movement, he grabbed hold of my wrist, pulled me down so that I was kneeling beside him on the bed. "You, my dear Watson. _Please_. Only you."

I was not aware of having been holding my breath until I exhaled in an immense flood of relief. So he did trust me, after all.

Slowly, I rose, promising Holmes I would make it as quick as possible. Absently, my hand found his forehead, letting the coolness of my skin rest on fevered flesh in attempt to calm him. He languidly closed his eyes under my touch, and once he relaxed somewhat, I again began my attempt to undress him.

As I unbuttoned his waistcoat, I spoke to him in a desultory fashion about whatever subject came into my mind. Normally, Holmes would reproach me for the idle chatter, but I will go so far as to say he appreciated it now, if only to hear the soothing tone of my voice. I imagine it must have done a great deal to distract him from his obvious pain and the discomfort of being stripped by his most intimate friend. He remained cooperative as I removed his waistcoat, braces, shirt, socks, and carefully undid the makeshift tourniquet haphazardly tied over his trousers. When I came to the buttons of his fly, Holmes let out a startled gasp, his cheeks flushing scarlet. Though he made no attempt to stop me this time, he was deucedly uneasy, squirming under the slightest touch, his pulse racing, already laboured breathing degrading into pants.

"Relax, my dear fellow. Just trust me," I whispered whilst pulling the soiled bed clothes from underneath him. Using fresh linens to preserve what remained of his dignity, I then proceeded to divest him of trousers and undergarments, leaving only his left leg and pelvis exposed.

Now that I could properly examine his injuries, I understood Holmes' hesitation. The wound was not located on his upper thigh as I had assumed, rather it was in a more private location. He had been shot perilously close to the groin, where upper thigh meets the pubic bone.

He was still nervous and fidgety, so I resumed speaking to him as I applied a fresh hand cloth to the wound.

"The bleeding finally seems to be ebbing, dear fellow, but this wound is quite deep. Certainly going to require stitches after the bullet is removed."

"Just… just do what you must," he replied, somewhat short of breath.

"Holmes," said I, reaching in my bag for my stethoscope. "Take a deep breath for me - that's it."

I listened to his heart, which was still fluttering rapidly and far too weak for my liking. Lungs sounded clear, yet his breathing was shallow; it was clear he was having difficulty taking in enough air in a single breath. He was also sweating profusely despite the fact the fire in his room had not been lit all day, and his elevated temperature confirmed my suspicions of infection. Together with the shock, and the bullet lodged in his groin for heaven only knew how many hours, I was beginning to wonder about sepsis.

"Exactly when were you shot?"

"Last night."

"Good Heavens, Holmes! What on earth were you thinking, leaving this wound untreated for so long? Do you not realize you might have died of blood loss? As it stands now, you have a substantial infection that may have been avoided was treatment sought earlier. Really, Holmes, you confound me!"

"Calm yourself, Doctor. There is no need to shout."

"Was this really worth it?" My frustration was rising.

"I solved the case." After a short pause to catch his breath, he added, with the hint of a smile: "Much to Inspector Cartwright's dismay."

So, _that_ explained the Inspector's impromptu bombarding of our rooms earlier. One day, Holmes was going to run his head into more trouble than even he could finagle his way out of, if he continued on so reckless a path. I dearly hoped I would be there to see him through it.

"I do not suppose you will fill me on how you have been occupying yourself since… all this," I waved a hand at his injury. His only reply was a sardonic snort.

Realizing that I was not going to get a straight answer from Holmes as to his whereabouts of the previous eight-and-forty hours, I continued with my ministrations.

Sponging his wound with warm water, I cringed in sympathy as he flinched from the initial sting of it on his raw, overheated flesh. Gently as I could, though I fear not with a light enough touch for so sensitive an injury, I wiped away the dried blood from his inner thigh with one hand, while simultaneously applying a fresh cloth to his groin to hinder the bleeding with my other. This prompted Holmes Holmes to moan aloud despite himself, eyes wrenched shut tightly against the pain. My heart skipped a beat, aware that he would never allow himself to display such emotion, even under severe strain. I realized he required surgery but had hoped to stall until I was at least able to stave off the fever wracking his body.

Now it was clear I must strain his system even further with a dose of anesthetics before he had the time to rally his strength. The drug could kill him under such circumstances, yet I felt there was no other choice, nor was their time to second guess my own medical opinion.

Just as I had done when undressing him, I talked Holmes through the process of what needed to be done to prepare him for the surgery. He nodded in acquisition, his glassy eyes looking up at me with implicit trust. It melted my heart to know he placed his very life in my hands.

The surgery was a bit longer and more complicated than I assumed, as the bullet was lodged quite deep. In fact, it had slightly penetrated bone. I removed the bullet and a few fragmented bone shards, flushed out the wound with water then antiseptic before stitching just enough of it to allow for drainage of any purulent discharge that might occur. Wrapping him snugly in bandages, I then slipped Holmes into a fresh nightshirt.

At his bedside I sat, hoping he might sleep even after the effects of the ether wore off. I dreaded having to give him a dose of morphine - his penchant for occasionally abusing the drug notwithstanding - rather I was more concerned about the effects it might have on his weakened constitution.

That I might lose him.

My eyes blurring from utter exhaustion, I drifted off in my chair sometime around mid morning. Alas, it was not to last long, for I was awakened a short while later by a tugging at my sleeve.

"Watson?"

"Hmmm?"

"I… remember now," he gasped "why… I came home."

"Why's that, old fellow?"

He looked up at me pleadingly. "To warn you… not… not safe here." Then I felt his grip on my arm slacken, and he promptly receded back into unconsciousness.


	3. Chapter 3

Was it the delusions of a fevered brain or could there be something more tangible to his ravings?

Holmes was broken out in a cold sweat, his rest a fitful one. Though the bullet had been successfully removed, the worst of the damage repaired, I was not fool enough to believe he was remotely out of the woods. His still laboured breathing, the elevated temperature, assured me of that, and the probability that his fevered brain was conjuring nightmares he was unable to distinguish from reality was not a far fetched one.

All I could be sure of was that I had never before known him to falter, not even under the greatest of stress. I unquestioningly placed my trust in his capabilities with much less to go on, therefore, was not about to begin doubting the man now.

With this in mind, I hesitantly left my patient's side to retrieve my old service revolver from the desk drawer. On my way back, as I paused to lock the sitting room door, I heard muffled voices emanating from the hallway.

"He was 'ere all right; look!"

A second man barked out a laugh. "Left a trail of blood all the way from the docks, he did!"

"Think 'es done for?" came the throaty voice of a third man.

"No such luck, I'd wager," the first chimed in. "Missed me mark by a mile! Woulda got the sodder clean through the heart, too, if he hadn't seen me and taken a flyin' leap off the pier like that!"

My hand was as yet curled around the doorknob when I felt one of the ruffians turn it.

Not being one to stand idly by and wait for my fate to be dealt, there was but one option I could think of that would give me even the slightest of advantages in so precarious a situation. Thus it was I wrenched open the door, revolver cocked, shouting like a madman for the gang of ruffians to drop their weapons and halt in their tracks.

The voice which came out of me startled myself as much as it did the three hooligans standing open mouthed in the hallway, and I must have appeared like one let loose from Bedlam! There I was, a respectable young gentleman in my dressing gown, shouting down the walls with the most foul of obscenities, my eyes alight with a raging fire that could have frightened off the devil himself. I was all that stood between these hired ruffians and Holmes, and by no means would I allow any of them to lay a finger on him, much less while he was practically defenseless in the throes of fever.

I cannot recall much of what took place in those few jumbled moments, but I do know that my sanity had fled. I can clearly hear the sound of my revolver firing off a round, but I would swear my finger remained fixed, that I never pulled back the trigger.

One of the ruffians hurled himself at me, clipped me in the jaw before the butt of my revolver came down on his skull with a bone splitting crack. Then another round of gunfire, aimed at me this time. The sting of a bullet grazing my ear. I stumbled against the doorframe, but quickly steeled myself, fired at one of the two men still standing and rushing towards me. I hooked the taller, bearded man, but the other, a short but hefty specimen, came charging at me like a bull. I fired, aiming for the shoulder but hit him square in the throat. He went down with an awful gurgling as blood bubbled from his mouth.

_And first do no harm… and first do no harm… no harm…_

There was nothing I could do to quell his bleeding. Blood squirted past the fingers I had inserted in the wound with every slowing beat of his heart. His intentions were to harm Holmes, I was protecting my friend, I told myself. Yet, I had not meant to do this horrible thing.

I cannot say when the other men came round from the thrashing inflicted upon them. For the next several moments, there was nothing but a complete concentration of marking the diminishing pulse of my victim and the never ending flow of blood through my fingers. When at last there was no more blood to hold in, I could not bring myself to remove my fingers from the wound. It was then I felt the gentle press of a hand squeezing my shoulder, turning me towards its owner.

Sitting by my side, with his own revolver in hand, was Sherlock Holmes. I am not certain how long he was there, but I believe it many minutes must have passed. Then, bending as best he could with the aid of his walking stick, put his lips to my ear, and broke the spell of my reverie.

"You are a better man than I, John Watson," he breathed, voice barely audible. "I would never be compelled to feel such remorse after taking the life of that vile miscreant."

"Bad as he was, he _was_ still human," I answered without looking up at my companion. "He was human and I have seen enough senseless death to last me two lifetimes. Enough of it already!" I ejaculated, with a good deal of heat in my voice.

"Yes, I know you have." To my astonishment, Sherlock Holmes, the man I had taken as completely devoid of emotion, believing all traces of his humanity to have been shoved aside by his practical deductive skills, wrapped a wiry arm around my shoulder. From this simple act, the tension I had not even realized was there, completely drained out of me. Pressing further into the contact, I leant my head on his shoulder, and he in turn rested his head beside mine. We sat like this for several moments, saying nothing, for nothing needed to be said - not with words, anyhow.

"Watson?"

I looked up at him, our foreheads still nearly pressed together. "Yes, Holmes?"

"You know I shall fully understand if you decided to find other lodgings."

"Why on earth should I want to do that?"

He went rigid for a moment, as if not expecting that response and at a loss as to how he should proceed. I felt him sigh heavily, his hot breath in my hair as he reluctantly pulled away. "Watson, it would not be fair for me to expect you to continue living here when my very occupation places your life at risk on a daily basis. No, it iss not right, and I beg that when you go, you… not hold this against me. I did not - that is to say - I never intended for you to be caught up in this tangled mess when I returned, only sought to warn you that I was being hunted and you might find yourself the proverbial sitting duck if my enemies were unable to get their hands on me."

"Holmes - "

"It was very imprudent of me," he continued, either ignoring me or so lost in his own train of thoughts he truly didn't hear. I never know with him. "To allow myself to faint on our stairs. Had I not done so I may have prevented you from having to go against your own nature and take this man's life. I know how heavily it weighs on your conscience and -"

"Holmes!" I pressed, a bit louder.

"I also wish to apologize for the sorry state you found me in this morning. I know your own health remains somewhat fragile, so there was no excuse for me to cause you to -"

"HOLMES!"

He gaped at me, unaccustomed to such interruptions.

"Be quiet."

"But Watson…"

"Holmes! Remain. Silent. I have no intentions of leaving Baker Street, and that is _final_."

"Surely you don't mean that," said he in disbelief. "What would ever make you want to stay after I nearly got you killed today?"

"You."

"I - I do not quite follow."

At this, I couldn't help but laugh. "Ah, can it be I have finally baffled the world's only consulting detective?"

Holmes was none too amused at my little jest.

"My dear fellow," I continued, "youalone are the reason I call these rooms in Baker Street my home. What did I have to look forward to after being sent back to England on a pitiable wound pension, with my health in tatters and not even any family or friends to see me through? Do you know how blasted lonely I was? Good Lord, I could not even afford my rooms at the hotel."

Holmes made to interrupt me but I immediately cut him off. "No, let me finish.

"Then, by some miracle of fortune, you and I both bemoan our lodging troubles to the same man. Any you… you seemed to be the exact medicine I required. You are a little trying at times, I must confess, but what drives others to distraction only makes me all the more fond of you. For some time now, I have considered you to be more of a friend than a fellow lodger and have no desire to leave your company even if it means a bit more excitement than I would find elsewhere. In fact, that's one of the things I so love about living here." As an afterthought, I added: "After all, I did survive Maiwand, Holmes. I think I can handle Baker Street."

Holmes pulled away, the warmth I saw in his eyes for a fleeting instant quickly masked beneath the surface, schooling his expression into something unreadable, even to I who knew him so well. When he turned from me, however, I did a bit of my own deducing and came to the conclusion that as no one had ever been close enough to him to have the chance to say as much, he likely did not even believe me.

"Holmes, it is true, whether you choose to believe it or not. There is no place I should rather be but here, with you."

He remained silent, but I thought I noted his shoulders trembling, if only slightly.

"_My dear Watson," _he breathed, and something in his tone convinced me of how sincerely he meant the endearment. "You puzzle me, and I do enjoy a good puzzle."

Though most might miss the true meaning behind his words, they were not lost on me. It was his way of conceding to me, of returning the affectionate regard I felt for him. I was profoundly grateful for those words spoken on our landing that January morning, however inadequate they should seem to another. For me, they were everything. I felt like a starving dog whose master finally saw fit to throw it a bone.


	4. Chapter 4

"I think it may be about time we called on Scotland Yard for their inferior, though unavoidably required assistance, would you agree?"

"A bit late for that, Holmes! Should you not have sent for them _before_ you got yourself into this mess?"

"Ah, you see, Inspector Cartwright is none too pleased with me at the moment."

"I am aware of that."

He cast me a sideways glance.

"Cartwright was here earlier," I explained. "Whatever you have done this time, I doubt he will be very forgiving. The man's really got a flea in his ear."

"Eh! Let him go scratch it. His bungling nearly cost me the case. Really, Watson, I must retract my earlier assessment of his brains, and group him with the worst of that lot. Simply because one very slightly stretches the boundaries of a few minor laws…"

"Would it be too much to suppose you will ever fill me in on the details?"

Holmes' reticence is legendary, so in truth I was not expecting anything but a cold shrug in response. He was always eager enough to include me in a handful of his more singular cases, where my presence could somehow be of assistance, yet in those early days he never spoke to me of any current cases he had not specifically requested I join him on.

"If you shall be so kind as to assist me back to my bedroom, doctor, I would be happy to go over the details of the case with you. This was the work a clever criminal organization, and I think you shall find it as intriguing as I have. And Watson," he added as I helped him to his feet, taking the full brunt of his weight upon my good shoulder, "I may require your assistance in tying up a few loose ends whilst I am incapacitated."

"I would be proud to, Holmes."

I will never fathom how he ever made it out of bed, let alone found strength enough to walk unaided all the way to the landing, for as I led him to his bedroom, every step induced a shock of pain that made him cry out, clutch the stick so tightly it cracked, and dug his fingers into my arm so deeply that I wore a substantial bruise for nearly a fortnight.

By the time I laid Holmes back under the covers, he was quivering all over, his breathing once again ragged from the exertions. I offered him a glass of water, which he had a difficult time accepting, for all his hands were shaking. Steadying his hands with one of my own, I supported his head with my other and helped him bring the glass to his lips. Thankfully, he was at least able to get down half its contents before going limp in my arms. I covered him to the chin in the bedclothes and sat vigil by his bed, laying upon his brow cloths soaked in ice water to keep the fever at bay.

Mrs Hudson, bless her, displayed nothing short of saintly patience throughout. As to be expected, she was somewhat nettled when she discovered the body of the dead assailant slumped on her stairs before I had the chance to call in the Yard to come remove the ruffian. Of course, she did warm some once she learnt of her insufferable lodger's pathetic state. I was convinced any other landlord in London would not have been so understanding, would have given us our notice to vacate her premises instead of the way she cooed _"Poor, Mr. Holmes! Who'd want to hurt him so?" _

Inspector Cartwright, however, was not so accommodating. When the Yard was called in to remove the body and make their preliminary investigation into the matter, our friend, the disgruntled Inspector arrived first on the scene (as I had suspected he would). He burst through Holmes' bedroom door with such sheer force that the uppermost hinge came loose and the knob left quite the dent in the wallpaper.

The arteries in his neck practically pulsated in his fury as he carried on about fanciful theories, unfounded claims, slipshod methods that brought disgrace upon the Yard, and personal ruination to him - or some such rot. I cannot rightly say I was paying much heed to his words, for his outburst had disturbed Holmes' rest.

My friend had just settled into his pillow, his breathing evening out as the renewed pain from his exertions died down (without the aid of morphine, thank heavens!) His eyes were just fluttering closed at the moment of the rude interruption, and when Holmes bolted subsequently upright, trembling, his sudden movements causing him to groan in renewed pain… that was about when my quick Scottish temper was roused. But it exploded when I saw that the Inspector was headed towards my companion's bedside with his arm raised as if to strike. I rose from the chair I had pulled over to Holmes' bedside, nearly knocking it over in my haste. With one swift movement, I blocked Cartwright's attempted strike with my bad arm, but it was worth it to have saved Holmes from suffering the blow. The man scowled at me, clearly still intent on seeing that Holmes was on the receiving end of that thrashing he promised earlier.

"Cartwright, stay away from him! Can you not see the man is injured?"

"Serves him right for sticking his nose where it don't belong. Maybe that'll be a lesson to him. Now, if you would just step outside for a moment, Doctor, Mr Holmes and myself have some unsettled business to sort out."

"The devil I will!" I shouted, blocking his path to Holmes, situating myself between his bed and the irate Inspector.

Cartwright's cheeks flushed a shade darker, and I clenched my fists, entirely unwilling to back down. So help me, the last thing I wanted to do was take a swing at a Scotland Yard official, but I _would_ do it without a second's hesitation, if he took another step nearer. I think the Inspector realized this as well, for he stood a cautious distance from me, eyeing me the same way he would a temerarious suspect.

"There's no need to go and get yourself tangled in this. It's between me and Mr Holmes, here," said he with a suavity that made my skin crawl.

"No, you are mistaken in that. If you mean to harm him, then you indeed have issue with me as well."

"Stay out of this, man! I've got a score to settle with Holmes, that does not involve you in the least. If you've a brain in your head, then get out of this room while you still can!"

"I must be awfully dense, then," I mused. "Not only have I no intentions of moving a whit, as I see it, you have absolutely nothing to settle with him. You may not appreciate his methods, but he has brought about justice while taking no glory for himself at every possible opportunity. Scotland Yard - _you_ - are indebted to Sherlock Holmes, yet he never has and likely never will ask for a thing in return. I say that is reason enough for you to simply walk away, Inspector, before _someone _does get hurt. And I can assure you, as I stand here with breath in me, it will not be Holmes." At this last remark, I stole a glance at the revolver lying at the bedside, quite within my reach.

Cartwright turned an impossible shade of purple. He took another, albeit cautious, step towards me, so that we were quite literally nose to nose. His foetid breath slithered up my nostrils as he spoke, softly, yet with a tangible rage.

"You've a dead man in your hall, Doctor. This cannot be so easily explained away."

"Then I shall gladly take the full blame for it. After all, I did fire the shot that killed him, though I dare say that shooting an intruder in self defense still qualifies as a legal action, does it not?"

"Not if I have my say. Do you honestly believe you or your friend here can cross me with no repercussions? Surely, Dr Watson, not even you are that obtuse?"

It was all I could do to keep my composure when the Inspector gave a contrived smile, took a step nearer, and patted my cheek in a mock slap.

Behind me, the click of a revolver reverberated loud as any scream in the ungodly silence. We both turned at the same moment to see Holmes propping himself up on the mattress with a trembling arm, for all appearances only semi conscious and as pale as if Death itself was grasping his wrists. "One feature of these rooms I have always found favourable is that our cellar is quite accommodating to ensconcing a body, would you not agree, Watson?"

"What is this, Mr Holmes? Resorting to petty threats, are we?"

"Oh, no, Inspector. Threats are a nasty little habit to fall into. By their very nature they reek of a bluff. Rather, I make promises, sir. Now, I shall kindly ask you to step as far away from the Doctor as you possibly can in the span of time it takes me to aim and fire this confounded thing or I shall -"

Holmes had barely finished his sentence before Inspector Cartwright turned on his heels and fled from the room like the coward he was. I was under no impression he had let the matter lie with the conclusion such as it was, although for the time being, I was all too relieved to see him go, as there were more pressing undertakings to concern myself with than the vanity of one overzealous young upstart.

"Ah, I fear we have made ourselves an enemy of some caliber, Watson. A pity that their most capable man should be such a lout."

"Yes, well, some things are wholly worth the risk. I should never be able to hold my head up if I allowed him to…" _Hurt you. _

Try as I might, the words would not fall from my mouth, the implications of what he might have done to my friend too horrid to even think on. As usual, I need not have uttered a word for Holmes to read my thoughts.

"No need to explain, Watson."

It was here that, despite going about the task as gingerly as possible, my friend once more groaned in pain as he lowered himself back down onto the bed. If it was at all conceivable, he blanched substantially, so that the color was drained even from his lips. That he had not succumbed to shock was a testament to his seemingly preternatural constitution.

"Here, this might help," said I, taking the revolver from him, laying it back on the table before assisting Holmes with situating himself into a comfortable position. Whilst my uncooperative patient mumbled something abut me ceasing this infernal fussing at once, I nevertheless tucked him under the bedclothes and informed him that this fussing, as he put it, would only get worse from here.

He was on the edge of either sleep or unconsciousness when he began speaking almost inaudibly.

"Do you… do you still wish for me to give you the details of that case… the one I bested Cartwright on?"

"I am always interested in your cases, but the telling of this one can wait until you're well," said I, settling into a chair to continue with my vigil.

"Very well then." Holmes peered at me through drooping lids. "You need not have tangled yourself in this mess with Cartwright for my sake, you know."

"Nonsense," I replied. "Anyhow, I was not the one who pulled a pistol on the fellow and threatened to secret his body in the cellar."

"No one calls my Watson obtuse."

"Except you, eh, my dear fellow?"

"Naturally." His lips parted in the faintest of smiles as he sank back into the pillow and his fevered dreams.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite my best efforts, over the next several days, Holmes drifted in and out of consciousness, the fever spiking to dangerous heights and giving me several premature grey hairs (which I have since pointed out to him as definitive proof I never once left his bedside for more than a few moments, not even to sleep).

On the evening of the third day, the fever, to my immense relief, finally broke. It was astonishing to me how quickly he not only recovered from what should have been so much graver an injury to any other man, but how it seemed to imprint no lasting effects upon his long term health. I, on the other hand, continued to have my doubts as to whether my own physical soundness would ever return to its formerly hale shape.

The night that Holmes' fever broke was truly the first time in days I allowed myself to leave him for a few hours and catch up on my own much needed rest. I thought I had imagined it when, in a state that was somewhere between the realms of the dream world and wakefulness, I saw the unmistakable silhouette of my friend's tall, slim figure standing over my bed, a crack of light pouring in from the slightly ajar door behind him.

I must have stirred, for he backed out in one lithe move, and with the quick obscuring of the dim hallway light by the near silent closing of my door, he was gone.

This was not to be the last occasion Holmes would make these strange night time visits by my bedside. At first, it was always under the pretense of a case, but gradually, either he became comfortable enough or we both simply fell into the routine of it, that I would wake to find him standing above me with no explanation given, nor was one required. In truth, albeit a decade and a half has since passed, I still awake some nights to the presence of him standing by me bedside. It occurs with greater frequency now, after those three years I spent in a living hell, then it ever did in the past. It was only after his return that I realized he does this thing for the simple reassurance that I am still there.

But I get ahead of myself.

As for our friend, Inspector Cartwright, we had not, in fact, effectively deterred him from any further malicious intent. If anything, we managed only to inflame the situation further, though we heard naught from the fellow for some three years after. I was to later learn that Holmes "adjusted" evidence that proved the guilt of this criminal organization, yet in the process, made Cartwright seem the fool for having overlooked it. I was never able to wrest the full story out of him, though he has intimated that this _may_ have led to the Inspector's ensuing demotion.

I had put Cartwright out of my mind entirely when at last he did serve us his revenge, which was so deviously calculated, so intricately worked out, that I am left with no doubts whatsoever he began weaving the web he meant to snare Holmes in from the moment that revolver was pointed at his skull on the morning whose events I have just recounted. When the sting of it is not quite so tangible to either of us any longer, I may eventually pen the tale of how Inspector Cartwright nearly demolished all that Sherlock Holmes had laboured so hard to forge.

Although, whilst I could not rightly leave Cartwright out of this account, this was by no means about him.

It is a dreary September evening. Driving rain or the threat of the skies opening up anew have kept me inside the entire day - ah! I have been at this task longer than I realized. A quick glance at my pocket watch reveals it is well past midnight. Holmes is absorbed with some chemical experiment or other, has been for the entirety of the day, yet I must not complain when this one is so decidedly lacking in fragrance, as compared to some other of his chemical undertakings.

Thus, I decided the day might be well spent going through my old notes, sorting the extraneous ones that could be burnt from those of import that I would do best to place in my permanent files for future reference. It was during this venture that I came across a bundle of hurriedly jotted down notes for the first case I was to assist Holmes on after the events recorded in this tale. I have written of that particular adventure under the title of '_The Speckled Band'._

It was in rummaging through these old notes, most of which were focused on our earliest cases together, that I noticed something glaringly obvious that had heretofore eluded my attention. Of course, Holmes would never miss this opportunity to claim that is the very reason it took me so long to observe it, were I to broach the subject.

A great part of the night has been spent cross referencing through our older cases to confirm if what I saw in my notes tonight was in fact accurate. And it was.

Thus, I set to the task of jotting down this tale in my personal journal, so that when I am too old and feeble minded to remember the events clearly, I shall have this to show me why on that spring day in April '83, Sherlock Holmes, for the first time, referred to me as his _"intimate friend and associate". _

A greater compliment he could not have bestowed.

_A/N: The inspiration for this fic was triggered by my curiosity as to which case Holmes first begins introducing Watson to his clients. If you read Canon chronologically, then SPEC, which takes place in April '83, gives us the earliest mention of Holmes introducing Watson to a client as his "intimate friend and associate"._


End file.
